


Marzipan

by VivaRocksteady



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: An attempt at historically accurate food writing, Bread, Butter, Comfort Food, Cooking, Food, Gen, M/M, Mentions of farm animals being slaughtered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady
Summary: There were a lot of things wrong with Romans. One example: they didn't eat butter.An ode to comfort food, Nagron style.





	Marzipan

"Jupiter's cock," Agron muttered. "It's not the same." 

"What's wrong with it?" Nasir asked. He scooped more goat's butter onto his stale bread. "I think it's good."

It was such a foolish, petty thing to complain about, Agron knew. They barely had food at all most of the time. The best meals they had were windfalls of wine amphorae or fresh game they managed to hunt. Bread was a rarity, more or less impossible to obtain in their nomadic camp setting.

When they came across bread in a commandeered cart, or from liberating a mill, it was a joyous enough occasion. Bread was usually old and hard, but it satisfied craving that nothing else could. Butter would, to be completely rational, improve nothing. 

Agron found that each step he took closer to freedom, the more he desired. It was a fine thing to live absent commands of others. It was a fine thing to have control of one's own body. But he wanted _more_. He wanted not only to live absent command, but to roam where he wished, to love who he wished, and to eat whatever and whenever he wished. 

And he _wished_ to eat _butter_.

Scarcity of food was simply a matter of fact. But in accumulating wealth and colonies, Roman fucks had actually developed a fairly reliable supply of food, droughts notwithstanding. For every other horror of slavery visited upon Agron in time he was in chains, he never went hungry (except when other gladiators interfered with his meals.)

Sometimes he even consumed food prepared for his wealthy dominus. Romans certainly knew how to eat. They had at their disposal all sorts of beasts, fruits, and vegetables, and countless methods of preparation. They ate every part of the animal, and came up with novel ways to prepare each one. They drank milk from goats and cows, they made cheese, they baked bread, and produced wine in quantities far beyond what anyone should reasonably drink. 

The one fucking thing Romans _didn't_ eat was butter. 

They produced butter, but they didn't eat it, which was the most asinine thing Agron ever heard. They thought eating butter gauche, something only barbarians like Agron did. 

They made it in small amounts. Sometimes they put it on burns, or took it for coughs. Sometimes wealthy ladies put it in their skin and hair, which made Agron bark a laugh when he heard. Why would one put butter on their skin or hair and not _in their mouth_ where it belongs?

Instead, Romans ate olive oil. Rebels came across olive oil more often than they did wine, so there was always oil to cook whatever food they found, or to soften their stale, hard bread. 

Agron was sick of olive oil. There was a grassy twinge which lingered, staying in mouth for hours. It had a distinct smell, and it was simply not what he craved. Smell seemed to taunt him, reminding him of the thing he longed for, which he could never have. 

Nasir sometimes put olive oil in his hair. Agron didn't mind this so much. 

One day, rebels acquired a small herd of goats. Immediate consensus, of course, was to slaughter goats and have a feast. 

Spartacus was voice of reason, trying to argue constraint. "A herd of goats can produce milk for a long time if they're well cared for," he said. "We should think of the future."

"I agree with Spartacus," Agron said, drawing surprised stare from all in tent. 

Even Nasir looked surprised. The little man probably expected Agron to have devoured an entire goat himself before meeting was finished. 

"A permanent supply of milk is better," Agron hastily went on. "Perhaps we slaughter one or two and dry the meat to have in reserve, but we should keep at least a few…" He stopped talking, because everyone was gawking at him.

Wisdom of Spartacus won out in the end. Agron smiled, but tried to keep it small. In truth, he cared not about planning for the future. When it came to goat's milk, he was entirely selfish.

"What are you making?" Nasir asked when he came to their tent next day, and found his man cobbling together something small and wooden. 

"It's a churn," Agron said. "It's supposed to be a churn, anyway."

"What's a churn?"

"It's for making butter."

" _Butter?_ Medicus has plenty of herbs, I don't think he needs butter."

"It's not for Medicus," Agron mumbled. 

"Then what's it for?" When Agron didn't answer, Nasir crossed arms. "Agron, is Spartacus aware you took wood?"

"Wood is from that broken cart, it was not salvageable." Off his little man's raised brow, Agron sputtered. "If this works, it will benefit all!" he proclaimed.

"How?"

"Nasir, have you ever eaten butter?"

"Ew! Of course not." 

Agron grumbled wordlessly and went back to cobbling his little churn. 

When goats were ready to give milk, Agron was first to volunteer to do the milking. He was careful in dividing pails fairly, and discreetly sneaking one back to their tent. 

Nasir watched, bewilderment on his face, as Agron furiously churned goat's milk. 

"Don't break it," he advised. 

"I know what I'm doing," Agron said, but gentled his movements nonetheless. 

"So… you just keep beating it until… it suddenly turns into butter?"

"More or less."

Squeaking of churn filled tent. Nasir suddenly crinkled pretty nose with laughter. 

"What?" Agron grunted. 

"You look as though you're stroking yourself to completion."

Agron looked down at churn between his thighs. "In a way, I am," he said, and enjoyed the way his boy flopped on their bedroll in laughter. 

When they finished fucking (Nasir had sense to make Agron set churn aside safely first) Agron lifted lid and saw that milk had indeed turned into butter. He knew on sight it wasn't the same. It was white, not yellow… but perhaps it would taste alike. 

"Here." Agron broke off a piece of stale bread and scooped some fluffy butter onto it, proffering it to Nasir. He watched, fretting, as Nasir took a small bite. He hoped it was good. 

"Hmm," Nasir said. "It's interesting."

That wasn't quite the reaction Agron wanted. He dipped a finger in the butter and put it to his lips. 

"Jupiter's cock," he muttered. "It's not the same." 

\-- 

Agron's mother was a dairy maid. 

Their village was in the mountains, not far from the Rhine. They lived on gently sloping pastures ideal for raising livestock. Most of the villagers made their living this way, and from hunting game and catching fish. 

Agron's mother had a little farm, and kept goats and cows. From the goats, they took milk. From cows, they took milk and made cheese and butter. 

Agron had strong memories of watching his mother churn butter, of the strong muscles in her arms and back. Mama had been a shield maiden before she had children, had fought alongside his Papa defending their tribe. Now her strength and work went to feeding herself and her family. 

He remembered feeling proud of his mother. She cared well for her animals. She took milk from the cows, left over from suckling their calves, and made this delicious thing from it with her own labour. 

One of Agron's strongest memories of his youth was when Duro was yet a babe, and his teeth were coming in. Agron had never heard such crying. He stared at his brother in horror. Duro had just been fed, so he wasn't hungry, and he wasn't dirty. This was a different cry. This was pain. 

"I think he hurts, Mama," Agron said. 

Mama was at a crucial moment in churning and could not stop. "Give him something to suck on," she said. 

Agron went over to a churn that had completed the day before. They used it in their breakfast, and daughter of village chieftain would be over soon to collect it for sharing. He scooped some fluffy butter onto his finger. 

"Here, Duro," he said, putting his finger to brother's lips. 

Duro sucked on his finger and immediately quieted. His eyes brightened and he smiled up at Agron. 

"It’s yummy, isn't it?" Agron asked. 

Mama's butter was in high demand. Other villages, who did not have cows, sometimes traded fine furs and weapons for a fresh batch of butter sent quickly as possible. 

Agron didn't realize at the time how lucky he was to grow up on a dairy farm, to always have access to butter and milk before it spoiled. Mama cooked delicious stews with butter, made milk and butter sauces for fish Papa caught, and for sausages made from pigs by their neighbours. In winter, they would have hot milk with honey, and hearty soups with a dollop of fresh butter right on top. 

When Agron was eleven, Papa went off to fight Romans in the south, to keep them creeping further towards them. His shield returned, but he did not. 

Once a week, every week since Papa's death, Mama would get fresh bread from baker. They would eat it for breakfast, with butter, of course, and honey or fruit preserves if they had any, and Mama would set a fourth place, at head of table.

"If your papa's shade comes to visit," she said, "he will know we still love him." 

After meal, she would bury buttered bread by their doorway, and Agron imagined his father eating it in the afterlife. 

Agron knew his mother loved him and Duro from food she laboured over. He saw tender love with which she treated her cows and goats, loving way she taught him to squeeze milk from udder. 

"Don't pull so hard," he remembered her chiding. "You must treat her like a fine lady, which she is. Firm, but not so rough. Remember, she wants to give her milk. She made it with love for her babies."

When Agron was distressed, or angry, especially after Papa's death, it was Mama's food that made him feel right again. For Agron, butter slathered on fresh hot bread was the very taste of love. And fool he was, he always assumed he'd be able to eat it whenever he wished. 

Then Romans came and stole him and Duro away, and he hadn't tasted butter since. 

He promised Duro they would, one day. "Stay by my side," he told his brother, "and I will see you to safety, and we will return home."

But Romans showed him a fool once more, and Duro would never taste butter again. 

\--

When goats started giving milk, Agron's countrymen from other tribes east of the Rhine started musing about butter as well. Agron told them he had built a little churn, but efforts were unsuccessful. 

They all had advice. Maybe he was churning too hard, or not long enough. Maybe wood of churn made a difference. Maybe it needed salt. 

"Fat is what makes best butter," Lugo said. "You must fatten goats up as big as cows!" He stood splay-legged and spread arms wide to illustrate fatness.

"Goats fed on edelweiss make better milk," Saxa said, fingering hilt of her sword. "But I know not where you would find some here."

Donar had arms crossed. He gave Agron a dark, defeated look. " _Nothing_ tastes like cow's butter except cow's butter," he said. "You'll never make it taste like home." 

Lugo scoffed. "Do not give up, brother!" he cried. "For our sake, at least. I would warm your bed in little man's place if it meant I could taste butter again, just once!" 

Agron tried it all. He searched for more feed for goats to fatten them up. He fed them different flowers he found. He built a new churn, from different wood. He tried salt. He changed the vigour of his churning. 

Nothing worked. Butter that came out was fine, but it wasn't what he wanted. Saxa, Lugo and his other countrymen all eagerly tried each batch, and were all disappointed. 

Butter found end the way it did elsewhere in Rome. Whores put it in their hair and on their skin. Medicus took some to treat burns. Some gave it to their babies, since babies were about the only people who would eat it. 

Nasir entered their tent one night to find Agron once again furiously churning butter. 

"Spartacus is unhappy," Nasir said. 

"Spartacus is always unhappy," Agron replied. 

Nasir sighed. "This was not his intention for the goat's milk. He says you are depriving others of it. Especially children."

Agron stilled. "Butter is just as good for the children."

"Yes, but… the butter yields less. And some is wasted in churn." An awkward pause. "And most of the children prefer goat's milk." 

Agron huffed. He did not have a worthy reply, so he did what he usually did, which was to stay silent and continue doing the thing that upset everybody, which in this case, was churning. 

Nasir settled down to sit by him. "Spartacus comes from Thrace," he said, "so he would not understand. Climate in Thrace is very similar to here, so all they have is more fucking olives."

Agron sputtered a laugh. He stopped churning, a concession. "I thought Syria of similar climate as well."

"Perhaps," Nasir said. "From what I can remember, the food is similar. There weren't foods I missed, really. Figs, dates, lentils… I ate them all here, too."

Agron sighed. One who had not eaten butter could never understand. 

"There was one thing," Nasir broke silence, "I remember my brother giving me. I only remember it once, but I think he got it for me on holy days, and my birthday. Special times."

He was quiet again, and Agron watched as he lifted beautiful fingers to beautiful lips, remembering taste. 

"It was a paste, shaped into flowers and baked. It was _so_ sweet, and it would crumble in your mouth. Agron, it was like… it was like eating the sun. When he gave it to me, it felt like… all his love and affection in a tiny little sweet. What did he call it?" The little man wrung hands, trying to recall. Suddenly, he gasped. "Marzipan. It was called marzipan."

Agron put an arm around Nasir's shoulder, because his little man was covering his mouth in despair, eyes watering. 

"Marzipan," the boy breathed. "I can't tell you… Agron, if a Roman spy snuck into camp and offered me marzipan to turn, I know not what I'd do, honestly."

Agron huffed a laugh. He kissed Nasir on the brow. 

"There were a few times we had almonds at the villa," Nasir continued. "It was made from almonds, so I thought maybe I could make it. The paste is easy, you just grind it. But I never figured out how they got it so sweet. All I could get was honey, and if that's what they use, I still know not how. Eventually I gave up."

"There are Syrians in camp," Agron said. "Older than you, who became slaves later. Maybe they know."

"Maybe," Nasir agreed. "But it would not be the same, because my brother is not here to share it with me."

Agron grumbled. He removed arm and crossed them, scowling. 

"I mean not to distress you," Nasir said, resting a hand on Agron's knee. "Truly, I don't… who made butter for you?"

Agron was quiet a long time. He knew a tight knot of feelings was beginning to unravel deep inside him, and he did _not_ wish to see it undone. 

"Mama," he eventually choked out. 

"Oh, Agron. I'm sorry." Nasir slipped arms around Agron and lay head on his shoulder. 

It was his little man's sympathy that tore open tight knot deep inside. Agron, furious, tried to hold back tears, but they fell nonetheless. 

"Does she yet live?" Nasir asked. 

"I don't know," Agron's voice cracked. 

In truth, he knew she did not. The entire village burned when he and Duro were stolen. This was confirmed by liberated countrymen, who said they'd heard tale of his village's destruction. 

"Well," Nasir said gently. "Perhaps she lives, and when Rome falls, we will return to her."

Full grown sobs broke from Agron now. "No, she is dead," he choked. "The village is gone. There's nothing left. There's no one, just me. I just wanted one thing…" 

"Oh, Agron." Nasir was weeping now, too. He pulled Agron to lay down on his lap. He stroked the barbarian's hair. "I'm sorry, my love."

Agron had only wept like this twice before: when his father died, and when Duro died. And when Duro died, his grief was cut short, transformed into murderous rage that had yet to abate. 

Agron had never wept for his village east of the Rhine. It was too much to consider. Everyone he knew, all his cousins, aunts, and uncles, the cows and goats on the farm, the smell of edelweiss in spring, the snow in winter, the stunning beauty of the river. It was too much to weep for. 

He'd never wept for his mother. 

It was like a dam bursting now, this depth of anguish pouring out of him, and it frightened him terribly. It felt never ending. 

Agron hated this despair. Anger was far better, and something he embraced. Anger he could use as a weapon. But this deep sadness unmanned him. He felt a small child, a small child who had nothing, because monsters had taken it all away. 

But Nasir was there, holding him tight, and Nasir wept with him. Agron loved him so much he felt he might drown in it. 

"Nasir," he said when he could breathe again, after untold hours of weeping. "Even if I found a cow, I'd never make butter the way Mama did."

"I know," Nasir said, stroking Agron's face lovingly. "I wish it wasn't so."

\--

Rebels liberated a farm. Agron and his heart were separated in battle, so when all was done, finding Nasir was his first priority. 

"He is safe," Saxa called out to him as he ran about field. "He is in the barn. Did you see they had cows?"

Agron's blood ran quicker. His second priority was finding cows before someone slaughtered them. 

He was too late. He came up to the barn and Nasir ran down to greet him, smiling. They embraced, and Agron kissed his boy fiercely, but was dismayed by crowd near barn. 

Spartacus was trying to get order while crowd scrabbled at something on the ground. 

"They already slaughtered the cows, didn't they?"

"Yes," Nasir sounded sympathetic. "I'm sorry. I couldn't stop them."

Agron couldn't blame them, really. The camp was on verge of starvation before this battle, having long since eaten the goats. It was still a disappointment.

"Come," Nasir said, mischievous glint in his eye. "I have something to show you."

Nasir led him away from slaughtered cows to farmhouse, glancing about all the while. In farmhouse, he kicked aside some straw and bent. 

"I hid these," he said, and lifted floorboards to reveal two wooden pails of milk. 

Agron gaped. 

Nasir laughed. "They just finished milking when we came across them," he explained. "I could only hide two. I'm not sure how much you need. But I couldn't hide any more in good conscience…"

"No," Agron said. He grabbed Nasir and peppered his face with kisses. "You are amazing."

After they finished fucking in the farmhouse (Nasir had good sense to replace floorboards and cover milk first) they snuck pails back to their tent under their cloaks. 

\--

Rebels resettled their camp around farm, as it had good wheat fields, a mill, and stone oven. Those among them who used to do such work set about threshing wheat, grinding flour, and baking bread immediately after battle. 

Nasir came back to their tent with several rolls of bread fresh from oven, for which he had paid dearly with coin and trinkets. 

Agron had just finished churning. 

"Is it ready?" Nasir asked, excitement in his voice. "Did you try it?"

"I'm about to," Agron said solemnly. He scooped a little of the fluffy butter onto his finger and lifted it to lips. 

His boy watched him like a hawk. "Well?"

"It's not like how Mama used to make," Agron smiled, "but it's very, very good."

He gestured for Nasir to give him bread, and broke the roll in half, scooping generous portions of butter onto both. 

It was fucking delicious. Bread was flaky outside and soft inside, and butter melted in it and rolled about his mouth like love. Agron closed his eyes and groaned. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw Nasir was grinning at him. 

"Why aren't you eating?"

"It's hard for me to get excited about _butter_ ," Nasir said. "But you were certainly enjoying that." 

Agron scowled. "Just try it!" 

Nasir smiled cheekily. He brought roll to mouth and took a bite. He breathed a long breath out, eyes falling shut, and after a moment, he groaned orgasmically. 

Agron grinned as he watched his boy noisily devour the bread. 

"Juno's cunt!" Nasir cried when roll was gone. He licked butter off his fingers obscenely. "Agron, you have never fucked me as good as this tastes."

Agron's eyes went wide. 

After they finished fucking on their bedroll (Nasir had good sense to make Agron cover churn first,) and had fairly gorged themselves on bread and butter, Agron scooped servings of butter into bowls to share with his countrymen. 

He also slathered more butter on one last roll. "There's a tradition in my family," he said. "But I will not partake if you think it wasteful."

Nasir looked curious. "What is it?"

"I'd like to bury this, for Duro, and my parents, in the afterlife. So they know I still love them."

Nasir's face softened. "That doesn't sound wasteful. It sounds lovely."

The boy looked slightly sad as they gathered bowls for Agron's errand. 

"Maybe," Agron offered, "if we can find some almonds, we can figure out how to make marzipan. It won't be the same, but it might still be good." 

Nasir looked up at him, eyes shining. He smiled brightly. Agron felt so loved he might drown in it. 

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on tumblr!](http://vivarocksteady.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bittersweet Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13467681) by [Lakritzwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf)




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